Goldfish, Brother dear?
by RandomWho
Summary: Sherlock and Mycroft play deductions with a fez when the fez's owner pops in. R&R, please.
1. Deductions

**"I'm living in a world of goldfish." - Mycroft Holmes**

* * *

"Well, London's terror alert has been raised to critical. I'm just passing the time. Let's do deductions." Sherlock Holmes picks up a circular red hat with a tassel and shows it to his older brother Mycroft.

"Friend left this while I was out, what do you reckon?" He tosses it. His brother doesn't even notice the casual remark of "friend".

Mycroft catches it. "I'm busy."

"Oh go on, it's been an age," Sherlock prods. Mycroft sniffs the hat. 'Better than licking it,' Sherlock thinks, the thought of the action reminding him of a friend.

"I always win," Mycroft tells his younger brother. "Which is why you can't resist," Sherlock responds.

Retaliating, "I find nothing irresistible in the hat of a well-travelled rambling sentimental lunatic with a shameful amount of love interest…" Mycroft stops as he notices Sherlock smirking.

"Damn."

"Now, I wouldn't say lunatic. Bit harsh," Mycroft raises his eyebrows, "how about madman?" Sherlock implies.

"Are you defending your little _friend_, Brother dear?" Sherlock flinches ever so slightly at his brother's implication. Maybe he did catch on.

"Isolated, too, don't you think?" The thin, dark-haired man asks, keen to change the subject. His brother allows it to slide.

"Why would she be isolated?" The much more rounder and shorter man questioned.

"She?"

"Obviously."

"Why, size of the hat?" Sherlock's eyebrows are furrowed.

"Don't be silly. Some women have larger heads, too." Sherlock's head turns as he ponders this.

"No," Mycroft continues, "She's recently trimmed her hair. You can see the little hairs adhering to the perspiration stains on the inside."

"Some men have long hair, too."

"Balance of probability."

"Not that you've ever spoken to a man with long hair, or, you know, a _man_," Sherlock suggesting his brother was gay.

"Stains show she does a lot of running, and sentimental because the hat has been repaired three, four…"

"Five times," Sherlock throws the hat back to his brother. "Very neatly. The cost of the repairs exceeds the cost of the hat, so she's mawkishly attached to it. One, or two, patches would indicate sentimentality, but five? Five's excessive compulsive."

"Hardly, your _friend _left it behind. What sort of an obsessive compulsive would do that?" Mycroft corrects him.

Sherlock grimaces as the hat is thrown back to him. "The earlier patches are extensively sun-bleached, so she's worn it abroad in Morocco."

"Morocco?"

"This is a fez, originated from Ancient Morocco. It's made of felt."

Sherlock, feeling he had the upperhand, smirks. "No."

"No," Mycroft repeats in surprise.

"True felt is made from animal fur or hair. This fabric is similar though it's made of a combination of wool, polyester, and nylon. Similar, but very _distinctive_ if you know what you're looking for. I've written a blog on the varying tensile strengths of different natural fibres."

Mrs. Hudson comes into the room unannounced with a teapot, "I'm sure there's a crying need for that!"

Sherlock pauses for a moment. "You said she was rambling."

"Bottom of the hat has been rubbed off by the excessive nodding of the head while talking. Then there's also-"

Sherlock cuts him off, "A kiss imprint on what we can assume is the front of the hat. Showing that she is possibly lesbian. The tips of the tassel are slightly burned off, hardly noticeable, either she was in the wrong place at the wrong time or deliberately threw herself into danger. Lunatic."

"Precisely," Mycroft nods.

"Elementary," Sherlock adds. He turns away somewhat to the right, before facing his brother.

"But you've missed the isolation."

"I don't see it."

"Plain as day," Sherlock supplies.

"Where?"

"There for all me to see," Sherlock teases.

"Tell me." Mycroft's tone getting irritated.

"Plain as the nose on your-"

"_Tell _me."

"Well, anybody who wears a hat as stupid as this won't be greeted as warmly, won't she? Almost like wearing a celery on a jumper then saying you're the highest authority."

"Not at all, maybe she doesn't mind being different. She doesn't necessarily have to be isolated."

"Exactly." He looks down at the hat, Mycroft left in the dust blinking several times, obviously confused.

"I'm sorry?"

"She's different, well more than different, so what? Why would she mind? You're quite right." Mycroft Holmes' younger brother lifts the hat and perches it atop his black curls. He looks at him.

"Why would anyone mind?"

A mechanical wheezing sounds to Sherlock's right as a blue 1950's Police Call Box materialises. Poor Mycroft's jaw hits the floor as an impossible sight meets his eyes.

The door swings open with a creak and out bounds a bow-legged man with floppy dark hair and a hilarious chin. Also wearing a bowtie.

"Ah! That's where my fez went. Thanks Sherly," the man says, sweeping the fez of Sherlock's head while mussing his curls at the same time. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"How many times do I have to tell you-"

"Never giving it up, Sherlock," the man says with a fond smile. And as if the man had only noticed Mycroft for the first time he says excitedly, "You must be Sherlock's brother! He's told me lots about you, though some aren't the most endearing." He took Mycroft's hands and vigorously began shaking it.

"I wonder why," Sherlock says sarcastically.

"Doctor!" A ginger stumbled out of the police box, Mycroft's jaw must be hurting now. "Oh, hi," she finishes lamely as she sees the two brothers.

"Yes, Pond?"

"Uh, River's coming. You better hide your fez." The Doctor's disappointed look says it all.

"Amy."

"Sherlock," Amy mutters a blush creeping on her cheeks. The Doctor looked between them, fez on head.

"Guys? Really, now? River's going to blow my fez!" The Doctor drops Mycroft's hand (which surely must be as sore as his jaw) and takes Amy's in replacement. She yelps as the Doctor drags her into the blue box and the wheezing began once more.

Sherlock turns around to see Mycroft off, only to smirk at his brother's expression. It reminded him of something Mycroft had said earlier he just had to ask.

"Goldfish, Brother dear?"

* * *

**A/N: **I do not own Doctor Who or Sherlock. That belongs to their respectable owners

And yes, there is implied Pondlock. It just popped out. Review, please!


	2. Family Outing

**A/N: **This chapter is to fufill the Guest reviewer's request on what Mycroft would say after. FaroreWorldshaper, I promise a sequel. BTW, I love your _I Can Do Magic, Too!_

* * *

"I should have you reported." Sherlock snorts.

"Oh please, government threat! More like an awkward giraffe."

"Woohoo. I thought I heard the Doctor." Sherlock groans as he crosses the room to his seat, while his brother remains standing in stony indifference.

"Mrs. Hudson, have you been to the store recently?" Sherlock's innocent tone suggested he wanted his landlady _out._

"I- No, not recently. Do you want anything?"

"Jammie Dodgers and a few bananas," Mycroft's eyebrows rose, "Oh, and some teabags, the Lady Grey kind," Sherlock says offhandedly with a wave.

"I thought I had restocked the pantry this week-"

"Do you really want to know where those items went, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asks with a pointed look at the older woman. Through the landlady's mind she could imagine all sorts of ways Sherlock could've used those items.

"I'll go pop around the store, shall I?" And she bustles out of the room only to reemerge saying, "I just wanted to tell you, have you seen what's on the telly?" Mycroft gives the glare this time, and she promptly scuttles away.

Intrigued, Sherlock reaches for the remote and switches the television set on.

**ALIEN SPACECRAFTS ABOVE LONDON**

Sherlock smiles as Mycroft's eyes widened. "Family outing, no wonder he had River with him."

"I- I will be going now," Mycroft hurriedly says, his hand already reaching for his cell phone.

"Don't forget your brolly!" Sherlock calls out. Mycroft does a quick, and if possible elegant, U-turn and grabs the offered umbrella.

With a small smile, the remaining brother swings his legs off his seat and strides to the mess of papers, pictures, and notes on the wall.

"Back to work."


End file.
